Free The Fourth Estate by Jeffrey Archer Page B

left without another word.
    So many
immigrants from so many lands came to converse with the young man-who seemed to
have read every paper-about what was taking place in their own countries, that
by the end of the first month Lubji had almost doubled the takings of the
little kiosk. On the last day of the month Mr. Cerani presented Lubji with his
first wage packet. Over supper that night he told the young man that on Monday
he was to join him at the shop, in order to learn more about the trade. Mrs.
Cerani looked disappointed, despite her husband’s assurance that it would only
be for a week.
    At the shop, the
boy quickly learned the names of the regular customers, their choice of daily
paper and their favorite brand of cigarettes. During the second week he became
aware of a Mr. Farkas, who ran the rival shop on the other side of the road,
but as neither Mr. nor Mrs. Cerani ever mentioned him by name, he didn’t raise
the subject. On the Sunday evening, Mr. Cerani told his wife that Lubji would
be joining him at the shop permanently. She didn’t seem surprised.
    Every morning
Lubji would rise at four and leave the house to go and open the shop. It was
not long before he was delivering the papers to the kiosk and serving the first
customers before Mr. or Mrs. Cerani had finished their breakfast. As the weeks
passed, Mr. Cerani began coming into the shop later and later each day, and
after he had counted up the cash in the evening, he would often slip a coin or
two into Lubji’s hand.
    Lubji stacked
the coins on the table by the side of his bed, converting them into a little
green note every time he had acquired ten. At night he would lie awake,
dreaming of taking over the paper shop and kiosk when Mr. and Mrs. Cerani
eventually retired. Lately they had begun treating him as if he were their own
son, giving him small presents, and Mrs. Cerani even hugged him before he went
to bed. It made him think of his mother.
    Lubji began to
believe his ambition might be realized when Mr. Cerani took a day off from the
shop, and later a weekend, to find on his return that the takings had risen
slightly.
    One Saturday
morning on his way back from synagogue, Lubji had the feeling he was being
followed. He stopped and turned to see Mr. Farkas, the rival newsagent from
across the road, hovering only a few paces behind him.
    “Good morning,
Mr. Farkas,” said Lubji, raising his wide-rimmed black hat ...
    “Good morning,
Mr. Hoch,” he replied. Until that moment Lubji had never thought of himself as
Mr. Hoch. After all, he had only recently celebrated his seventeenth birthday.
    “Do you wish to
speak to me?” asked LubjJ1.
    “Yes, Mr. Hoch,
I do,” he said, and walked up to his side. He began to shift uneasily from foot
to foot. Lubji recalled Mr. Lekski’s advice:
    “Whenever a
customer looks nervous, say nothing.”
    “I was thinking
of offering you a job in one of my shops,” said Mr. Farkas, looking up at him.
    For the first
time Lubji realized Mr. Farkas had more than one shop. “in what capacity?” he
asked.
    “Assistant
manager.”
    “And my salary?”
When Lubji heard the amount he made no comment, although a hundred peng6s a
week was almost double what Mr. Cerani was paying him.
    “And where would
I live?”
    “There is a room
above the premises,” said Mr. Farkas, which I suspect is far larger than the
little attic you presently occupy at the top of the Ceranis’ house.”
    Lubji looked
down at him. “I’ll consider your offer, Mr. Farkas,” he said, and once again
raised his hat. By the time he had arrived back at the house, he had decided to
report the entire conversation to Mr. Cerani before someone else did.
    The old man
touched his thick moustache and sighed when Lubji came to the end of his tale.
But he did not respond.
    “I made it
clear, of course, that I was not interested in working for him,” said Lubji,
waiting to see how his boss would react. Mr. Cerani still said nothing, and did
not refer to the